Quite The Chef
by F Elizabeth
Summary: Kurt and Blaine spend a lovely holiday evening in the kitchen baking sugar cookies. After a little accident with the flour, how will the two boys handle cleaning up?


**_Ah, I just love writing about Klaine so much. It warms my heart. Just bored and decided to write a little one shot about Blaine and Kurt at Kurt's house over Christmas break. Writing time: 1 hour. Enjoy! Reviews are appreciated!

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"Hey, Kurt! Um, I think there's something wrong with these cookies."

"They're brown; that's a start."

"Why are they brown?"

"You over cooked them, Blaine. They're burnt."

"I set the timer right, didn't I?"

"Yes, but you didn't take them out when you were supposed to."

"Figures."

I placed the metal tray, loaded with scalded cookies, on the cook top in Kurt's kitchen. Instead of being a light shade of brown, the cookies were a gross color of black. The edges crumbled when touched and they smelled awful. So much for ginger bread men and sugar cookies.

"It's okay," Kurt said with a smile, observing the wasted food item. "There's enough dough left to make another batch." He paused. "Well, there _would _be if you stopped eating spoonfuls of dough every five minutes. Don't you know you can get sick from that?"

"What?" I asked. Kurt lifted the tray with a pair of pink oven mitts and brushed the crumbly cookies into the garbage can. "How? I thought it was like cookie dough ice cream."

"Cookie dough, when used to bake," Kurt explained with an amused expression, "is made with raw eggs, milk and flour. Until it's put in the oven, you've got raw eggs. You'll get sick if you eat too much. It's only edible after you take the finished product out of the oven."

"Then it's not cookie dough anymore."

"My point exactly."

I rolled my eyes with a sigh and reached my hand toward the enormous ceramic bowl of dough. Kurt snatched a wooden spoon from the counter and swatted at my hand.

Snow was falling in blankets outside, covering the entire lawn in white ice and glitter. The date was two weeks before Christmas and everyone was into the spirit. As Kurt reached for the bag of flour to start a new batch, his step-mother garnished the tall Christmas tree in twinkling lights and strings of popcorn. His step-brother, Finn, lounged on the couch and lazily strung kernels of popcorn on a few feet of string, the television playing a football game on silent. There were a few murmurs from Kurt's step-mother to Finn about eating the popcorn, and one or two lines from Kurt about the cookies, but otherwise all was quiet.

"Finn!" Everyone in the house jumped two feet in the air. Finn's girlfriend, the infamous Rachel Berry, stormed into the living room, which was clearly visible from the kitchen. She wore an oversized red sweater coated in so much glitter, you could hardly tell it was red. Her dark hair was pin straight and cascaded around her shoulders. In her hands she carried a large box of glass ornaments. "Why didn't you take these upstairs for your mother?"

Startled, Finn didn't reply. He only continued stringing popcorn and Rachel sighed. She set the box down by the tree and began unloading it. That was the deal, as Kurt had told me. If Finn got to invite Rachel over for the holidays, then Kurt should too, and vise versa. I was the one person Kurt thought to invite. He invited _me _over Mercedes Jones, who had been his closest friend for a year now.

"Blaine?" Kurt was saying, holding his hand out for something. "Can you hand me the spatula?"

"Which one?" There were two in front of me on the counter. "The metal or the plastic?"

"The plastic one will work."

He took it from me and stabbed the ball of dough, stirring it around in the bowl to get the excess off the sides. He sprinkled a handful of white flour across the counter top to the point where it looked like powdered sugar. He slipped the spatula back in my hand and tore a chunk of dough from the bowl. Kurt looked up at me.

"Are you going to make me do all the work or what?" he asked and offered the cookie mixture to me. "Just don't eat it."

"Darn," I laughed and swiped the chunk from him. It was cool and bits of it got under my fingernails. "How'd you know I was going to eat it?"

"Just a guess."

A few minutes went by as we kneaded the dough into flat shapes on the counter, cutting them with metal stencils. The living room was filled with the sound of Rachel's voice, carrying on about Christmas decorations and why Finn wasn't being a good helper. Poor Finn, I thought, being stuck with Rachel for a significant other. She was bossy, rude, in your face, arrogant—there were a million more things I could say about Ms. Berry that weren't the best.

"Oh, dang!" Kurt cried and leapt back. Powdery flour covered every surface in front of us, including in the sink, the counter, the floor and all over the both of us. In my moment of zoning out, he must've knocked over the bag of flour. It coated his face like makeup; he was as white as a sheet.

"You've got a little . . ." I trailed off and brushed my fingers jokingly against his nose. He swatted at my hand.

"Kurt?" his step-mother called. "You okay in there?"

"Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Hummel," I replied before Kurt could say anything. "Just a little spill. We'll clean it up right away."

Finn chuckled and as I turned back to Kurt, I glimpsed Rachel hiding an amused smile.

"You're being a suck up," Kurt hissed as he retrieved a wash cloth from one of the drawers. He tossed me one.

"Why shouldn't I? Best friends should suck up to the parents so they know their kid isn't hanging out with drug dealers or something."

"Just for your info, you don't look like a drug dealer," he said and raised his chin a fraction. "You look like a . . . guy who hoards Harry Potter memorabilia in his room and has boxes of it in his basement. I don't think that would tick off my parents."

"Harry Potter?" I questioned, dampening my cloth and trying to mop up the spilled condiment.

"Oh, yeah, totally," Kurt replied and added an eye roll. "Because you look like the type to watch the five Harry Potter movies on repeat."

"There are six of them on DVD, Kurt."

"Whatever."

I stared at him for a moment and bit my lip. There was something about him that was charming. Was it his grey-blue eyes, or the way his hair was always so perfect? His expansive wardrobe he never wore at Dalton because of the dress uniforms? Or was it his laugh? His singing was . . . there were no words to describe it. But I could never tell him any of these things.

Since his conflict at McKinley with the closeted football player, he seemed a little hesitant about being around guys in general, with the exception of Finn and I. To him, I was only a mentor to help him get over it and nothing more. But I most certainly wanted to be something more. We both went to Dalton, so if we started dating, who would torment us about it? No one. At McKinley, the football players would be lining up to push us down the stairs.

Kurt was traumatized by the incident and there was no telling how he would react if I were to bring up that subject again with him. I didn't want to push him more into fear than he already was. Even by the way he walked, it was more than obvious something was up. But the cause wasn't known unless you were there to witness it or hear about it personally.

Okay, I was head-over-heels in love with this boy and it was so damn hard to show it. I sighed and rinsed my hands under the sink.

"Hey, Blaine," Kurt said. "You've got a little something on your face."

I nodded and ducked my head. "Yeah, I know, I'll clean it off in a minute."

"You've got it in your hair, too."

"What?" That made my head raise to glance in the window's reflection above the sink. "I don't have anything in my hair."

"Now, you do!"

A white, powdery cloud hit the right side of my face and stuck to my skin. There was a little giggle as Kurt tried to hide his amusement. It wasn't working well. I turned to him.

"Oh, haha," I said, "you're funny." I made a lunge for the sack of flour before he could reach it and overturned most of it above his head. He shrieked, then sneezed. His face was paler than usual with all of the flour and his hair was all white instead of dark brown.

"Blaine!" he cried and made a move in my direction. His face fell when I reached for the spray nozzle connected to the sink.

"Don't come any closer," I threatened and switched the sink on. "One more move and you'll be soaking wet!"

"You wouldn't."

"I would."

"Bring it."

"What? You're wearing Armani."

"I'm going to the dry-cleaners tomorrow." He shrugged. After a minute, he said, "Okay, I seriously was joking. Don't spray me, please. Truce?"

"The war hasn't even begun, but okay: truce."

I replaced the nozzle and he threw away the crumpled, empty flour sack. He grimaced as he gently pushed me aside to examine his reflection in the window over the sink. He turned his head to study his face from all sides.

"I look _terrible,_" Kurt moaned.

"Kurt Hummel," I gasped in fake shock and clutched my chest, "look terrible? Why, I've never heard of such a thing!"

"Very funny. Hand me a towel, please, Blaine."

"No, seriously, you look better than me on my best days," I explained as I fished through the bottom drawer for a wash towel.

"And is that saying something?" he asked.

"Oh, most definitely, because you know I'm just too scrumptious."

Kurt's face flushed red under the white cover of flour and he swiped the towel from my hand, sticking it under the running water. "Did you just describe yourself like a pasty?"

"Why, yes, I did," I beamed.

"Well, since pastries are scrumptious," he said as he sponged off his face, "and most are made with flour, and I seem to be covered in flour, am I scrumptious?"

It took me a minute to speak before I said, "Do you really want me to answer that?"

"Yes, I do." Kurt didn't even glance at me while he spoke. I chewed on my lip in thought. Finally, irritated, he turned to me with an expectant expression. "Well?"

"You still have flour all over your . . . face," was the only thing I could say. Actually, I would've said _lips _but that would've been a little too awkward.

Kurt glanced back at the window. "It's all gone, isn't it? I can't really tell. You get it." He thrust the towel out to me with a huff. I stared at it for what seemed like hours before numbly taking it. Gently I dabbed it against his chin and his reaction didn't change. His dark eyes shimmered in the lighting of the kitchen as he looked at me.

I moved the section of towel up to his cheek, where there was clearly nothing there, but it would buy me a little time. I swallowed past the lump in my throat. He thought of me as a mentor, I reminded myself, Mentor only. Nothing else, just mentor, and that was how it would stay.

"Blaine?" Kurt asked and we both seemed to notice the little tremor in his voice. "What are you staring at?"

I was in _his _kitchen, practically in front of _his _step-mom and _his _step-brother, in _his _house. But none of that stopped me as I leaned forward slightly to rest my forehead against his. His breathing grew short and his face grew a deeper shade of pink. His eyes frantically searched for something other than me to stare at. Screw being a mentor.

I pressed my lips lightly to his. They were warm and moist and covered in flour, but I didn't care, I was enjoying every second of it. Kurt's hands were limp at his sides and he stood completely still, not daring to move a millimeter. I pulled back to see his face.

"You taste like flour," I whispered, "and pastries are made with flour, and pastries are scrumptious."

A smile broke out across his face and he flung his arms around me, muttering in my ear, "You're quite the chef, aren't you?"

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**Review?**


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